


True Love

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme on LiveJournal - just a fluffy little Roose/Walda ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Love

She sits on her husband’s lap, clad in nothing but a frilly pink bedgown. Her arms are twined around his body and her face close to his, so near that she can feel his breath on her cheek. It’s dim in the bedchamber, but Walda can still discern the planes of his face, the pleased expression that is just for her. She never sees Roose look upon his son like this, nor the Bolton men, nor the lords who cluster in the Dreadfort begging homage of their new Lord Paramount. Not even his sister-in-law, his only relative really, merits more than the briefest courtesy. But when they are alone together, he smiles, and sometimes she’s able to make him laugh. It’s never cruel; merely a shared amusement over some triviality.

She smiles back, and he touches her cheek, fingers pressing against the dimples that form there, then cupping her face, flushed from the wine she’d had at dinner and from the attentions that she’s now receiving. Walda knows full well what else those hands have done, how they’ve been bloodied with bad business, and she does not care a whit. All that concerns her is the way that one strokes her cheek, and how the other, sliding into her bodice, does the same with a breast. 

Walda bends then, kissing Roose on the mouth, weary of dancing around the obvious, wanting more and more, and when he responds, his hands slide to her waist, gripping her soft body a little too tightly, pulling her against him, and they fall to the bed together, ungracefully, limbs tangled, hands fumbling. 

He leans over her and says her name softly in her ear. “Walda.” And she sighs contentedly at his voice, at the desire that is there, desire for her. She remembers how cruel she’s heard it been, when he’s dressing down his son for his usual vulgarities, or chastising a servant for some misstep. But it’s never harsh when they’re like this, lying together, half-clad, then unclad as he slides the lacy nothing over her head, as she undoes the lacings on his doublet, his tunic. 

“I love you,” Walda whispers, and although he does not answer, although he never does, not in words, she knows that there is something there, and she presses it close and holds it tight as her Lord of Bolton takes her and makes her his again.


End file.
